The Diary of a Goose Girl - Kate Douglas Smith Wiggin (top android ebook reader .TXT) 📗

was seized with an unaccountable desire for vegetable marrows, and Mr. ’Eaven put the pony in the cart and went to Woodmucket for them, which is a great advantage to be so near a town and yet ’ave the quietude.”

Mr. Heaven

Mr. Heaven is merged, like Mr. Jellyby, in the more shining qualities of his wife.  A line of description is too long for him.  Indeed, I can think of no single word brief enough, at least in English.  The Latin “nil” will do, since no language is rich in words of less than three letters.  He is nice, kind, bald, timid, thin, and so colourless that he can scarcely be discerned save in a strong light.  When Mrs. Heaven goes out into the orchard in search of him, I can hardly help calling from my window, “Bear a trifle to the right, Mrs. Heaven—now to the left—just in front of you now—if you put out your hands you will touch him.”

Phœbe, aged seventeen, is the daughter of the house.  She is virtuous, industrious, conscientious, and singularly destitute of physical charm.  She is more than plain; she looks as if she had been planned without any definite purpose in view, made of the wrong materials, been badly put together, and never properly finished off; but “plain” after all is a relative word.  Many a plain girl has been married for her beauty; and now and then a beauty, falling under a cold eye, has been thought plain.

Phœbe has her compensations, for she is beloved by, and reciprocates the passion of, the Woodmancote carrier, Woodmucket being the English manner of pronouncing the place of his abode.  If he “carries” as energetically for the great public as he fetches for Phœbe, then he must be a rising and a prosperous man.  He brings her daily, wild strawberries, cherries, birds’ nests, peacock feathers, sea-shells, green hazel-nuts, samples of hens’ food, or bouquets of wilted field flowers tied together tightly and held with a large, moist, loving hand.  He has fine curly hair of sandy hue, which forms an aureole on his brow, and a reddish beard, which makes another inverted aureole to match, round his chin.  One cannot look at him, especially when the sun shines through him, without thinking how lovely he would be if stuffed and set on wheels, with a little string to drag him about.

The Woodmancote carrier

Phœbe confided to me that she was on the eve of loving the postman when the carrier came across her horizon.

“It doesn’t do to be too hysty, does it, miss?” she asked me as we were weeding the onion bed.  “I was to give the postman his answer on the Monday night, and it was on the Monday morning that Mr. Gladwish made his first trip here as carrier.  I may say I never wyvered from that moment, and no more did he.  When I think how near I came to promising the postman it gives me a turn.”  (I can understand that, for I once met the man I nearly promised years before to marry, and we both experienced such a sense of relief at being free instead of bound that we came near falling in love for sheer joy.)

Picture of toy on wheels

The last and most important member of the household is the Square Baby.  His name is Albert Edward, and he is really five years old and no baby at all; but his appearance on this planet was in the nature of a complete surprise to all parties concerned, and he is spoiled accordingly.  He has a square head and jaw, square shoulders, square hands and feet.  He is red and white and solid and stolid and slow-witted, as the young of his class commonly are, and will make a bulwark of the nation in course of time, I should think; for England has to produce a few thousand such square babies every year for use in the colonies and in the standing army.  Albert Edward has already a military gait, and when he has acquired a habit of obedience at all comparable with his power of command, he will be able to take up the white man’s burden with distinguished success.  Meantime I can never look at him without marvelling how the English climate can transmute bacon and eggs, tea and the solid household loaf into such radiant roses and lilies as bloom upon his cheeks and lips.

CHAPTER III

July 8th.

Thornycroft is by way of being a small poultry farm.

In reaching it from Barbury Green, you take the first left-hand road, go till you drop, and there you are.

It reminds me of my “grandmother’s farm at Older.”  Did you know the song when you were a child?—

My grandmother had a very fine farm
   ‘Way down in the fields of Older.
      With a cluck-cluck here,
      And a cluck-cluck there,
      Here and there a cluck-cluck,
      Cluck-cluck here and there,
   Down in the fields at Older.

It goes on for ever by the simple subterfuge of changing a few words in each verse.

My grandmother had a very fine farm
   ‘Way down in the fields of Older.
      With a quack-quack here,
      And a quack-quack there,
      Here and there a quack-quack,
      Quack-quack here and there,
   Down in the fields at Older.

This is followed by the gobble-gobble, moo-moo, baa-baa, etc., as long as the laureate’s imagination and the infant’s breath hold good.  The tune is pretty, and I do not know, or did not, when I was young, a more fascinating lyric.

The sitting hens

Thornycroft House must have belonged to a country gentleman once upon a time, or to more than one; men who built on a bit here and there once in a hundred years, until finally we have this charmingly irregular and dilapidated whole.  You go up three steps into Mrs. Heaven’s room, down two into mine, while Phœbe’s is up in a sort of turret with long, narrow lattices opening into the creepers.  There are crooked little stair-cases, passages that branch off into other passages and lead nowhere in particular; I can’t think of a better house in which to play hide and seek on a wet day.  In front, what was once, doubtless, a green, is cut up into greens; to wit, a vegetable garden, where the onions, turnips, and potatoes grow cosily up to the very door-sill; the utilitarian aspect of it all being varied by some scarlet-runners and a scattering of poppies on either side of the path.

The Belgian hares have their habitation in a corner fifty feet distant; one large enclosure for poultry lies just outside the sweetbrier hedge; the others, with all the houses and coops, are in the meadow at the back, where also our tumbler pigeons are kept.

Phœbe attends to the poultry; it is her department.  Mr. Heaven has neither the force nor the finesse required, and the gentle reader who thinks these qualities unneeded in so humble a calling has only to spend a few days at Thornycroft to be convinced.  Mrs. Heaven would be of use, but she is dressing the Square Baby in the morning and putting him to bed at night just at the hours when the feathered young things are undergoing the same operation.

A Goose Girl, like a poet, is sometimes born, sometimes otherwise.  I am of the born variety.  No training was necessary; I put my head on my pillow as a complicated product of modern civilisation on a Tuesday night, and on a Wednesday morning I awoke as a Goose Girl.

Hens . . . go to bed at a virtuous hour

My destiny slumbered during the day, but at eight o’clock I heard a terrific squawking in the direction of the duck-ponds, and, aimlessly drifting in that direction, I came upon Phœbe trying to induce ducks and drakes, geese and ganders, to retire for the night.  They have to be driven into enclosures behind fences of wire netting, fastened into little rat-proof boxes, or shut into separate coops, so as to be safe from their natural enemies, the rats and foxes; which, obeying, I suppose, the law of supply and demand, abound in this neighbourhood.  The old ganders are allowed their liberty, being of such age, discretion, sagacity, and pugnacity that they can be trusted to fight their own battles.

Ducks and geese . . . would roam the streets till morning

The intelligence of hens, though modest, is of such an order that it prompts them to go to bed at a virtuous hour of their own accord; but ducks and geese have to be materially assisted, or I believe they would roam till morning.  Never did small boy detest and resist being carried off to his nursery as these dullards, young and old, detest and resist being driven to theirs.  Whether they suffer from insomnia, or nightmare, or whether they simply prefer the sweet air of liberty (and death) to the odour of captivity and the coop, I have no means of knowing.

The pole was not long enough

Phœbe stood by one of the duck-ponds, a long pole in her hand, and a helpless expression in that doughlike countenance of hers, where aimless contours and features unite to make a kind of facial blur.  (What does the carrier see in it?)  The pole was not long enough to reach the ducks, and Phœbe’s method lacked spirit and adroitness, so that it was natural, perhaps, that they refused to leave the water, the evening being warm, with an uncommon fine sunset.

They . . . waddle under the wrong fence

I saw the situation at once and ran to meet it with a glow of interest and anticipation.  If there is anything in the world I enjoy, it is making somebody do something that he doesn’t want to do; and if, when victory perches upon my banner, the somebody can be brought to say that he ought to have done it without my making him, that adds the unforgettable touch to pleasure, though seldom, alas! does it happen.  Then ensued the delightful and stimulating hour that has now become a feature of the day; an hour in which the remembrance of the table-d’hôte dinner at the Hydro, going on at identically the same time, only stirs me to a keener joy and gratitude.

Honking and hissing like a bewildered orchestra

Harried and pecked by the big geese

The ducks swim round in circles, hide under the willows, and attempt to creep into the rat-holes in the banks, a stupidity so crass that it merits instant death, which it somehow always escapes.  Then they come out in couples and waddle under the wrong fence into the lower meadow, fly madly under the tool-house, pitch blindly in with the sitting hens, and out again in short order, all the time quacking and squawking, honking and hissing like a bewildered orchestra.  By dint of splashing the water with poles, throwing pebbles, beating the shrubs at the pond’s edges, “shooing” frantically with our skirts, crawling beneath bars to head them off, and prodding them from under bushes to urge them on, we finally get the older ones out of the water and the younger ones into some sort of relation to their various retreats; but, owing to their lack of geography, hatred of home, and general recalcitrancy, they none of them turn up in the right place and have to be sorted out.  We uncover the top of the little house, or the enclosure as it may be, or reach in at the door, and, seizing the struggling victim, drag him forth and take him where he should have had the wit to go in the first instance.  The weak ones get in with the strong and are in danger of being trampled; two May goslings that look almost full-grown have run into a house with a brood of ducklings a week old.  There are twenty-seven crowded into one coop, five in